Solitude
by bluRaaven
Summary: She had helped raise him, watched him grow up and take his father's place atop the throne. She had laughed at his wedding and wept tears of grief upon his death. [Torygg, Sybille Stentor, Ulfric Stormcloak]
1. Chapter 1

Sybille says some *very* disturbing things, but there is no doubt Torygg was dear to her.

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><p>The day the boy is born the bells toll loudly in the city of Solitude. People gather to celebrate this joyous occasion, crowding in front of the Blue Palace; and they sing and light candles, holding them high above their heads.<p>

The king has an heir!

She is allowed to hold the babe, after he is cleaned of blood and swaddled. It is a great honour, that Istlod would entrust her with his firstborn, if only for a few minutes.

She smiles at the wrinkled brow and red face even if the child cannot see it, being fast asleep. For the first time in decades though she feels something warm fill the cold space where her heart used to beat.

"Torygg", the High King says with all the pride of one who has just become a father.

She tried it, lets the word roll off her lips ad decides that she likes it. "A good name, my liege."

The baby squirms and makes a soft, wailing sound and she quickly hands him over to the man beside her.

Long after the royal couple has adjourned to their private quarters she stands under the starry sky, looking out over the dark city from one of the balconies.

"Torygg."

She would watch over him too, she decides, that no harm would befall him.

xxxx

He is four years old when he runs away from his governess and out into the courtyard, past the startled guard and beneath the horse tethered to a pole, as fast as his short, pudgy legs can carry him.

She is already racing after him as the animal shies and kicks and misses him by a hair's breadth. The boy runs on, oblivious, and slips on the gravel and then he is falling and she arrives a fraction of a heartbeat too late to catch him.

Torygg is wailing, palms and knees skinned and bleeding and she lifts him and places him on her hip. Her cool fingers pass over his cuts, alight with a golden glow and the skin knits itself back together without a blemish left.

He cries in, more from shock than pain now and she makes soothing noises, running her hands through his auburn hair until, worn out by the day's events, he falls asleep.

And she tilts her head back to the heaven, accepts the pain and thanks the Divines for their protection.

xxxx

He is a reckless child, but clumsy and breaks a leg when jumping down stairs. Torygg is confined to the bed and she reads him stories, of mighty heroes and ancient Tongues, and gallant lads and gracious ladies. Sometimes she sings, softly, because unlike her he loves the sound of her voice.

"Be careful, little lord", she chides when he is fit to walk again.

xxxx

Torygg is introduced to the art of swordsmanship at the age of six-and-ten, and her heart swells pride to behold him thus, no longer a child, but soon to be a man.

xxxx

He comes to her often, when happy or sad, troubled or in need of advice. When his mother, the High Queen passes away, they grieve together.

xxxx

Torygg is eight-and-ten when his father dies. The Moot is called, the Jarls gather in the capital to remember High King Istlod and to choose his successor. She sits at her lord's side, as his friend and trusted advisor. What she has awaited and feared throughout his entire life comes to pass then; her Thorygg is named High King by Skyrim's rulers and a jewelled crown is placed atop his unwrinkled brow.

Ulfric Stormcloak is openly talking treason later on the very same night and with rising dread she watches Torygg's eyes gleam and notices his rapture; he is enthralled by the man who is almost a legend himself.

They toast the new king's health and wish him a long, prosperous rule and the Jarl of Windhelm fixes Torygg with a hard, calculating stare and though she is the dead one, she briefly wonders if there is a living man behind those cold emeralds.

xxxx

A year later, Torygg is married. He had little say in the matter, as everything was arranged years prior, but if he has any misgivings, he does not let his feelings show. He has always been a happy child of summer.

Elisif, his bride-to be is called 'The Fair' by her subjects, even at the delicate age of six-and-ten. She is a timid girl, polite to a fault and visibly nervous as she curtsies before the entire court.

Torygg bows and offers her his arm and brightest smile and leads her out for the first dance. But she, who watches them both closely, notices how their gaze never strays from one another and hides her smile behind a cup.

xxxx

The feasts are splendid and the parties talked about months later and the young couple dazzles the citizens. They are well loved, not ruling long enough for the lavishness to take its toll on the treasury, or for the people to grow weary of them. They never have the time to make mistakes, either.

The missive arrives first and when winter holds the land in its icy grasp so do the sons of the snow, one after the other. The Jarl of Windhelm is last, and he lets them all wait for him.

"Jarl Ulfric", Torygg greets the blond man with one of his charismatic smiles and not a trace of antipathy. "You arrive just in time for the feast. Come, let us eat and drink!"

Ulfric Stormcloak does not spare a smile for him in return. "Will you cast aside the yoke of a corrupt Empire that thrives on the suffering of our people?", he asks, quietly at first, but then his voice rises in volume with anger and he is heard by all. "Will you rally our warriors in the name and for the glory of Talos, our rightful god, to fight against those who would see us enslaved? Will you, Torygg, stand up for Skyrim!?"

Torygg blanches, totters as if struck by a physical blow, but remembers his training and gives the other man the same rehearsed reply like two years prior. Their best chances are with the Empire. They rely on their troops and trade and protection. With every word Stormcloak's face closes a little more, but his eyes burn all the more brighter for it.

"Then no", Ulfric declines and reveals the deadly purpose behind his visit. "I will not break bread with you, nor will I share mead. You are no High King. I name you traitor to all Nords and challenge you, Torygg Istlodson, to prove my claim wrong by means of combat. _Krif wah dinok_. To the death."

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><p><strong>AN<strong>: Short and messy, written on my knees during a lecture on corporate law. I am too tired to apologize for that, but I hope you liked it nonetheless. To be finished tomorrow.

This story is a part of the **Blacktyde Chronicles**!


	2. Chapter 2

This is madness. She grabs his shoulder, wishes to hold him back. Urgency lends her strength. "Torygg, you don't have to do this."

He blinks, as if waking from a dream and gently but firmly removes her hand. "And have all of Skyrim think of me a craven? No, Sybille." The king smiles sadly. "I must."

He turns to face the man who has accused him and respectfully inclines his head, chivalrous even now. "Very well, Jarl Ulfric. I accept your challenge." They can hear his voice break upon those last words, a husk of its former self. The king coughs, but stands with his back straight.

"It is the defender's right to choose weapons", Jarl Balgruuf, called here for negotiations, says softly while the other members of the court draw near, form a circle and whisper amongst themselves.

"Sword." Torygg swallows. "And shield."

Soldiers fetch his arms and armour and servants run for the palace to inform lady Elisif. Torygg is clad in his mail that he has only ever won for ceremonial purposes before. It is polished and shining, too much so and she has to avert her gaze.

She notices that the Jarl of Windhelm does not so much as unpin his cloak. He exchanges his axe for a sword and gives the weapon a few swings, rolling his shoulders.

From the inside the palace, Elisif comes running, skirts hiked up high that her pale legs show. She falls into her husband's arms, weeping, and the spectators turn away to give them at least a semblance of privacy until the couple stands apart once more.

"Fasten my collar, my love", Torygg says quietly and she does, because his hands are shaking too much. Then he kisses her, briefly but passionately.

"Torygg?" Tears glisten in her eyes. "You will win, right?"

The High King takes both of her frail hands in his and bows his head. "If the gods will it, I shall prevail."

The contestants are brought shields and Ulfric immediately, with a deliberate show of contempt, tosses aside his.

A gasp goes through the crowd. It is Torygg's good right to keep his own, to fight the Jarl over whom he now has the advantage and for one moment she feels hope. But they all know the symbolism behind the Stormcloak's action. The king cannot afford to hide, not from the truth or his duties to his people, not behind the skirt of the Empire; not behind his shield.

Torygg drops it as well. "Ah", the king sighs. "Straight to the point, as always. Well, at least the food won't have the time to grow cold", he attempts at levity and she loves him for it, for his courage as he faces his rival.

A few nervous chuckles are heard here and there.

"Fight", Ulfric says in return, face grim and tosses his sword from his right hand to his left. "Or die well."

His battle cry reverberates from the stone walls around them as he springs forth, wielding his sword with both precision and ferocity. Torygg is on the defensive from the start, has to give ground and barely manages to block the incoming blows, to keep away from his opponent's blade. Sweat is beading upon his brow not a minute into the fight and his breath grows laboured. He has had training, but he is more skilled at dancing at court than with weapons.

Ulfric's skill is honed by years of warfare and practice, his sword's edge whetted not by servants, but by the blood of his foes.

He has a tendency to change his hands, she notices with astonishment.

A misstep of king's part and the Jarl closes the distance between them with extraordinary speed for a man of his size. Torygg blocks the first blow just in time, but Ulfric is already spinning, momentum carrying him forward and Torygg's blade rises to meet his once more – too slow. The Jarl's sword comes down and they can hear the High King's arm break. He keeps his grip on the weapon, somehow though he gasps with pain.

Torygg lunges forward and even she can see that he is off-balance, but Ulfric dies not move aside, or raise his own blade in defence-

_FUS RO DAH _

The metallic ring and wet crack of Torygg's body smashing into the wall on the other side of the yard is almost drowned out by Elisif's panicked shriek.

xxxx

"No!", she hears herself breathe, all air gone from her lungs. In the aftermath of the Shout her ears ring with the sudden quiet.

Twenty years! Twenty years she has loved that boy, has cared for him, watched him take his first steps and held him when he was sick. Like it was yesterday she remembers the day he was born, can see him crawling over the palace floors with his mother and father in tow, the royal family beaming with pride.

She has committed to memory his one-toothed smile, his laughter, the feel of his small hand in hers.

They grieved and celebrated together and she was at his side every step of the way; through the death of his parents, to the day he became the High King of Skyrim. She finally was forced to admit that he was her boy no longer, but a man grown as she beheld him at the day of his wedding, clad in the best of finery and radiant, regal. And she watched over him and his bride alike and rejoiced at their plans for a future, for their family.

xxxx

He slides to the ground and she can see him jerking, erratically, blood blowing from his nose and ears and matting his hair, a darker shade of red.

Elisif has to be held back by a soldier as she is screaming for her husband and kicking the man in an attempt to break free of his grasp, but he probably barely feels the petite woman's struggling.

She has only eyes for her boy, they seem to be saying something, she can see Ulfric's lips move, but does not hear a word. Torygg shakes his head, weakly and the Jarl's jaw is set. He kicks the other Nord's sword, but it skids closer to the fallen man and Torygg's fingers close around the hilt.

Then, Ulfric Stormcloak plunges his sword through the High King's chest, right where the heart is.

Torygg's eyes are wide open, fixed on the man he had throughout his life admired as a hero, his mouth is working as he struggles for a breath. He twitches a couple of times before growing still.

He dies, and so does the spark of life he had ignited inside her.

xxxx

Angry mutters begin to rise as the crowd realizes what they had just witnessed. The Jarl of Windhelm does not retrieve the sword, leaves it in his king's body. Elisif, now Torygg's widow, is calling on the guard to arrest her husband's killer.

Ulfric Stormcloak mounts a snowy white mare and leaves the city at a gallop.

xxxx

'Ride, Jarl', she thinks, 'And ride hard. For if I catch up to you, I will bestow upon you a curse more terrible than you can imagine.'

Torygg was in Sovngarde, she knew. She would now make sure his murderer never reached it.

xxxx

Back in the keep, Sybille listens to fair Elisif's lamentation and gathers those books, of bold lads and Tongues and burns them, one and all.

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Thank you for reading! Some headcanon for the BC slipped into that last part...oh, well.


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